Drop The Game
by ButtercupBee
Summary: Short stories between Sherlock and female John; More information on the inside.
1. Bored

So I found this cute little stream of texts between John (now June) and Sherlock on Pinterest. After three hours of searching I couldn't find the original creator of the texts, so all credit goes to them, whomever they may be. This will be part of the series I am making for Ghost; Where'd You Go. Most will be silly and others will be sad or fluffy, a break from all the sadness. Just what ever comes to mind. Please enjoy!

Oh, and if needed I can leave a link to Ghost; Where'd you go. In fact, I'm sure if you just click my profile my stories will come up. At least I think they do.

More at bottom.

Disclaimer: I do not own BBC Sherlock nor any previous owned titles.

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Sherlock was insufferably bored, to say the least. He watched as the ceiling did nothing to consummate this and drowned out in a fuming hate. The room was dull, he had no need for an experiment right now and there weren't any cases that peaked his interest, not to mention June was out, so at the moment he couldn't poke and prod the woman into giving him a glare and warning.

She had specifically told him not to touch her stuff, lest he wanted her to take his things and hide them. Childish, but it worked. If this were the first few months of them sharing a flat, he'd ignore her concern immediately, but she was getting better, instinctively so. He still hasn't found his beloved Yersinia Pestis. He rolled to his side, staring blankly at the cushions of the couch.

June was out on a date and he couldn't be bothered to remember the man's name. The male was loud, boisterous, and as far as he was concerned harmless in every imaginable way, but still found himself plunging into a seat of ire. And she seemed to be quiet taken by him. Which only purged any thoughts of rationality. June was his companion, not this…whatever the man's name was.

At this point they should be eating, talking about mutual likes and dislikes. Rolling about on the couch he sat up, brushing his hands through his hair with a shake before clasping his hands together, placing them under his chin. He covers the flat with his utmost attention. His eyes land on his mobile, sitting on the kitchen table, and he stands before he can think of anything else.

Pulling up June's number, he decided the best way to quench his boredom, or at least entertain it, was to bother her. From afar.

 _June, I'm bored._

 _SH_

He waits and finds he receives no response. He huffs, settling down on one of the kitchen chairs.

 _Are you still on your date?_

 _SH_

He was nearly impervious to the thought that it might be over, but it didn't change the fact that he wanted it to be done. Why couldn't she just come back to the flat and show him where his precious bacteria was? Plus, that man was hardly her type.

 _Borrrrred._

 _SH_

He waits five minutes and finds nothing. Not even an irritated sling of letters that are usually hastily written when she's on dates such as these. He stands. He might as well find something to do if she's not here to entertain him, better she text him soon, but it seemed highly unlikely. She'd regret this later, he was sure.

Leaving the kitchen in a fury, he enters her room. His eyes trained the small lock box she keeps her gun in. He'd just due with more target practice. He finds the key under her pillow, and he sighs, she really could've done better hiding it. She was better than this and if she were here he would had skillfully scorned her for such a horrendous way of hiding something that apparently means of importance to her.

Opening the box, he finds its empty and he almost smiles, mirth lacing the glaze in his eyes. Did she take her gun on a date? He should have deduced that sooner. She hardly seemed worried when he texted her, considering the lack of contact, she had straight out ignored him. Which, obviously, meant she was sure he would't be able to play with her dangerous fire arm.

He pulls his phone out again.

 _Have you taken your gun on a date?_

 _SH_

He slides the phone into his palm and leaves, her room a meaningless mess unless she happened to keep something of interest to him. He wanders the flat once more, upon doing so hears a squeak. Normally, he'd be curious, the sound a pitch higher than the vents in the wall. But he rides it out as just that, sitting in his arm chair with an exaggerated swing of the legs.

The dull moment is abruptly put to a stop when he see's he's received a text. His heart flutters vigorously against his chest, but comes to haunting stop when he sees it wasn't June who had sent him back an agitated message, but Lestrade asking him to come in.

He would have, but after reading over the situation, the murder wasn't even a five. He says no. To Lestrade and to the murderer who was obviously after his attention. It isn't long before Lestrade sends another two, and he groans.

 _Lestrade is annoying me, June._

 _SH_

He falters in his seat, his legs stretching out and resting on the edge of June's arm chair. It's empty and a part of him wishes she was here just reading, at least he'd be bored with some company. He struggles to keep his focus on the silence, that is until he hears the same squeak from earlier and flounced his attention to the left of him. A small mouse scurries away at his hardening gaze.

June hated mice. He stands, picking it up by the tail; he carries it to the kitchen, intent on putting it in a container. And that's exactly what he does, taking out a large rectangular basin, slapping the lid atop. He decides it might be best to tell June of the tiny rat.

 _I've found a mouse._

 _SH_

He waits, not exactly expecting a response, but gets one in less than a minute.

 _A mouse?_

 _JW_

It's odd that this, of all things, this is what centers her attention on the situation at hand. His ignorant boredom should have grasped for her immediately. He leans down, staring at the small rodent and giving a turn of the lips that just barely classified as a smirk. It would be interesting to see how well it would respond to laxatives. He brings his attention back to the blackberry in his palm.

 _Yes, June a small rodent._

 _SH_

He waits, expecting another incoming text, but the ringing on his phone stays silent and he huffs. She's ignoring him again. What was so special about this date that put it ahead of the others?

The man was obviously married, (Ring finger, band-shaped indent, ring missing, too fresh for it to be long ago.) He decided to pull a chair up to his backside and sits. (Wallet stuffed, pictures, family pictures to be exact. Are hidden in the back, June won't be able to see them.) Really though, if your going to cheat don't take pictures such as that to another date. Its horribly articulated and he just felt embarrassed for the man. He sighs regardless, because maybe he should have told June. He sort of had, before she had left he had already told her he didn't like the man.

All she had done was roll her eyes and said he didn't like anyone. He thought his obvious dislike of the man was a good enough reason and thought that she'd call off their date. And she was wrong, about him not liking anyone. He liked her, her companionship was the utmost of importance to him. And he hardly paid any mind to Ms. Hudson. Nice woman; could grow on the nerves though.

He decides to push.

 _Come home or I'll put it in the microwave._

 _SH_

Nothing. Nada. And he was about ready to tug on his hair in frustration. Why wouldn't she pay him any attention?

 _Juuuune_

 _Sh_

 _Your boyfriend has a wife, and he killed one of_

 _his cats when he was fourteen._

 _Sh_

He thought that'd spark some interest. He about gave up, deciding that maybe the case Lestrade had offered was better than nothing, he was that desperate. But his phone dinged and he felt almost exhilarated, with a passing fill of relief.

 _UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES ARE YOU_

 _TO PUT THAT MOUSE IN THE MICROWAVE._

 _JW_

Obliterated mirth surrounded his shrouded form and he rested his elbows on the kitchen table. He leans in on the now frantic mouse. He squints and pulls away. Did the damn thing have lice? He supposed it didn't matter. He had June's undivided attention now.

 _Come back and the mouse lives._

 _SH_

C

He picks up the retainer and moves the conversation to the living room once more, setting the case on her arm chair he sits down in his.

 _Wait, wife?_

 _JW_

He rolls his eyes.

 _Yes June, a wife. Do catch up._

 _SH_

 _How did you know?_

 _JW_

She's skeptical. Usually isn't and he finds that he's actually shocked. She always praised him, but now, he could practically hear the cynicism in her message. He could see it through the text with the eyes of a hawk. She must have really like the man. Too bad he was leaving her life for good once he was done giving her his deductions.

 _He has a band-shaped indent on his ring finger_

 _Too fresh for him to have removed the ring_

 _A long time ago, and he arrived at the flat_

 _Today with a finger shaped bruise around collar_

 _bone. I saw when he took his jacket off._

 _Not domestic violence, don't worry,_

 _They weren't dark enough for that. Likely_

 _Just…interesting bedroom activities._

 _SH_

Her response is immediate.

 _Right, I'm making my excuses when he_

 _Comes back with the drinks._

 _JW_

He smiles, an overly powerful feeling of success and pride sticking to him like hot glue. He sits up straight, staring at the mouse like it was the best thing to happen to him since yesterday.

The mouse begins to squeak loudly and he takes back what he's thought. Opening the container he takes it in hand and pushes it into the blender. If the thing didn't shut up he'd turn it into another one of his experiments.

 _Do hurry. The mouse is struggling._

 _I put it in the blender for the time being_

 _SH_

He watches as the mouse struggles against the glass. June was taking her time, wasn't she? His trance on the small being is broken when he hears the familiar sound of his mobile ringing.

 _I'm in a taxi. Don't turn the blender on._

 _JW_

It isn't long before June enters the flat, eyes fixated on Sherlock, he's sitting in the arm chair, acting as if he were reading a book. He glances up, bright eyes full of glint when they land on her. She leaves him to the book and enters the kitchen. It isn't long until she's in front of him, tapping her foot with executed annoyance and a bit of anger and he finds he has none to no clue as to why she was angry at him. He hadn't left anything open, hadn't touched her tea or lap top. There wasn't much of an explanation for her irate. He lifts a brow and settles the book down on his lap.

"There was never a mouse, was there?" He gives her a confused look, gaunting his eyes to the side to find the blender empty. He stands, marching to the kitchen, shuffling through the clutter on the kitchen table. "Sherlock?" he pauses.

"There was a mouse..."

He's spinning like crazy, trying to find the tiny little creature. How could it possibly escape the blender? He had put the lid on and everything. He even listened to June, didn't turn the rodent into a shake. He nearly jumps, June screaming and he spins to see her on top of his chair, legs shaking and her eyes wide. He goes to see her but finds the mouse on the floor, scurrying away from June.

"Get it!" She screeches and he wants to push her off his chair just to see what would happen. He listens either way, leaning down he attempts to pick the furry creature up but it manages to escape his grasp. It rounds the kitchen and leads its way back to June, who is trying her damnedest to climb higher ground. He finds it amusing, a woman who had fought in Afghanistan, someone who survived a war , was absolutely, undeniably, petrified by a simple rodent. He didn't understand the fuss, but he was entertained so he didn't exactly care much for an answer right now. Instead of going over and helping her he watched as she squirmed in terror. She looks at him, eyes dazed with panic. "Sherlock!" He shrugs, as if he can't move.

Oh, she hated this man.

The mouse disappears for a second, and June swears her heart is put on pause. She hugs to the chair for dear life, arms wrapped around the back of it, and if the thing were alive, it'd be dead by now. Sherlock muses, she squeals when the thing moves once more and she nearly hops off to make a run for the stairs.

"Sherlock, please." June whines out, face studded in fear.

He moves from his spot, June his destination. The mouse goes into hiding once more and the room goes quiet, the constant squeaking it had put up leaving the flat. She breathes softly, examining the room like she were looking for a puzzle. "Why did it stop?" She whispers and he realizes just how traumatized she is, and can't help but snicker at the reactions she's giving him. She punches him in the shoulder. "Sherlock, why did it stop?" She's begging now and he rolls his shoulders.

"It probably got comfortable somewhere." She nods, taking this as her chance to make a run for it and slowly leaves the seat she had used as a safeguard. He watches, obviously bemused and she sends him a glare. It runs over her feet and she jumps, screams and grabs onto Sherlock, climbing up him like he were a tree. Arms snatching his neck and her legs wrapping around his torso in one swift movement. He sputters something but she can't understand him. She's overly fueled with drunken alarm. He sighs. "June, it is just a-"

"A mouse. I am aware of that!" She lures him away, tilting Sherlock to the side with her weight. This would have been a nice piggy back ride if she weren't strapped to the front of him. He doesn't make the attempt to help support her weight, but does head for the stairs, intent and taking her to her room so he could solve their crisis in peace. He's in her room in the matter of a few minutes, her near death curdling screams enough to put any man down, but just enough to push Sherlock up the stairs, the winnings of doing so would be phenomenal. He'd be able to hear.

He drops her on her bed, and like the soldier she was she straightens, fixing her shirt as if she wasn't just screaming her throat dry. She then tucks her knees up to her chest, chin high of course and he sends himself off.

He had to go catch a mouse for his dear Watson.

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So, I don't know if there is a special way to make a series on this website, and I'd be more than pleased and thankful if someone told if there was. Do I leave a link to the other stories or just explain in the notes in what order they go...I apologize if this has come out rude. Please leave a follow, favorite or comment if you enjoyed. You don't have to, but they really motivate and help! Thank you so much for reading!


	2. Warmth

New chapter, hope you guys like this one!

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She couldn't sleep, it was impossible with all the noise he was making downstairs. She gawks at the wall, eyes glazing over, and blinks rashfully. She tosses and turns, an attempt to somehow find a way to block the noise out, but the clanking is too loud. But that does nothing in her expectations of help. He's loud, she gets that, but can't he be a little less loud at night? Sitting up with an irritated groan she swept her feet down.

Bare legs breaking from the warmth of her blankets and daring the frigid air that surrounded her, she almost shivers but moves either way, standing the sudden breeze of the A/C. She makes a grab for her sweater, the tightly knitted source of warmth reaching her knees. Ms. Hudson had made it for her, though she had underestimated June's height and made it a bit too long. She didn't mind, it was comfortable, that couldn't be said for the grandmother who had attempted and failed at making her a scarf.

Leaving her room she makes her way down stairs, little light pigmented throughout the small flat, shadows seemingly darker than before during the daylight. She stops in the living room, peering over at the consumed detective, his body moving from one spot to the next in the matter of seconds.

Playing with unnatural chemicals and bacteria she was certain wasn't safe for the flat. He doesn't even notice her, too busy in his own little world to care. She would have been agitated with this sort of ignorance but it was Sherlock Holmes.

He wasn't exactly socially outstanding when it came to another living persons presence. She leans up against the corridor, crossing her arms against her chest with the tilt of her head, watching as he moved around, admiring really. She didn't understand; how someone could go so long without sleep and still react just as quickly as another person to life's daily trials.

As much as she hates sleep, she needs it if the world wants a cooperating, working, thinking June Watson. But with Sherlock it was a whole other story. He could go nights on end without shutting an eye. And she wonders how hard it must be to just lie still with that much activity playing pin ball in his head.

She almost feels bad, pities him, but at the same time can't bring herself to do it. He doesn't like pity, she knows that much, and his genius wasn't something to feel sorry for. He got to save lives with it…of course, like everything good in this world, it came with a price.

Never being able to slow down. Everything around him must have been so dull, she couldn't possibly imagine and she realizes she can't possibly help, so she gets ready to leave. But his voice puts her on pause and roots her feet to the ground, listening.

"June, could you get my mobile?" she glances over, glaring at the mobile sitting right next to him, as before, to preoccupied to not give it any attention. She gives him a scowl, but moves over to him anyways.

Taking his mobile she leans against the counter, his hand out, ready for the cold like metal to reach his palm any moment now. She ignores him like he had been her and fiddles with the cell. Nothing of real importance, just an anonymous text asking for chocolate. Must have been the nice couple down the street…

She glances up at Sherlock than back down at the text, reading it over again and again and frowns. Why were they texting Sherlock so late for chocola—Oh

Well that just wasn't right.

Really, who asks their neighbors for chocolate this late at night for their…activities? Unless one of them was actually doing something productive with the creamy sustenance, then she was sorry. But that was highly unlikely.

And why were they texting him? Sherlock of all people? It's not like he's the friendless of people, can be quiet irritating really, and they chose him over her to ask for a favor? Had she come off rude? If she remembered correctly he had said one of them was overweight and the other much to dirty for their own good.

Not to mention, he insulted their dog. Who insults a dog? Sherlock Holmes does. And they still go to him for chocolaty sex, why in the worl—

Why in the world was she getting so worked up over this? It must've been the lack of sleep. She sighs, shoving the phone in her jacket pocket, his hand wavering until he realizes she's not handing it over. He gawks at her, leaving his scope for once, agitation crossed over his features within seconds.

"June." He warns, waving his hand around with dramatic pause and she almost wants to slap it, but at the same time laugh at his over perceptual reaction. It isn't until she holds back her laughs and actually looks him over she sees the dark circles under his eyes, the steady frown in his lips and the exhaustion his shoulders that she realizes every man needs sleep.

Not matter how smart, brilliant or inhuman they might be. She leans over, dangerously close, and Sherlock almost tugs back. Surprised at the close proximity she has brought to him. "Sherlock." She dares, her voice just as dangerous as his. But her expression betrays her tone, a small pout lied across her lips and filtering concern sat on her cheeks, clear as day.

She pulls back, just a little, but instead of scolding him, she tugs him off the chair. Brows curved down and she pulls him away, he's angry now, he was in the middle of an experiment and she had just ruined it. She leads him to the couch "Lay down." She orders, the tone mustered from her days in the military, and he just crosses his arms, like a child and refuses to move. She glares. At this he decides to leave his position, sits down with a frown and crosses his arms once more.

She leaves his sight, for only a moment, and comes back into the living room with a large blanket and he understands what her intentions are. "I'm not tired." He protests, and she groans.

"Yes you are, you want to know how I know?"

"The shaking hardly matters, June." She hadn't noticed the shaking, but she wouldn't dare mention that, that only enforced her entitlement into getting him to rest.

"A bit..." She counters sadly, unfolding the blanket in her arms, a drastic amount of excess air whipping out and hitting him in the face. She peaks over at him from the now flat blanket and He realizes that's her excuse in everything she brings to bay. (Just a bit, yeah? Bit bad.) His thoughts run, mimicking her voice.

He sighs, watching as she lies the blanket atop of him with a swoop. She sits down next to him of course, a small but sad smile on her lips and she takes him by the shoulders, lying his head on her lap. He's stiff at this, she'd just kept surprising him through the night, and maybe he should just expect a few more.

Her fingers begin to brush through his hair, as absurd as it sounds but he lets it happen. He doesn't want her to stop, if he were to be honest, it's comforting in a moralistic way. It's sudden, how quick he just excepts the position but finds solace in the fact that she cared enough to do this at all.

He sinks his head into her legs and he can smell the vanilla and strawberry drifting from her smooth naked flesh. Taking a big, deep breath he finds that it's absolutely intoxicating, it infuriates him. The outcome being his heart trembling with each breath, and he feels warm on the inside, like a marshmallow center in those chocolates. He doesn't understand the feeling, he must have deleted it a long time ago, but he doesn't want it to stop.

He wants her to keep doing it, and it's the most unexpected outcome for him. He doesn't like being touched, the feeling uncomfortable in most contact made with others, but hers was different. His soldier, his doctor, his blogger, her hands were sensitive and…and perfect.

He hums when the blunt of her nails softly graze his scalp, he doves his nose between the small crease between her legs and he's in a comfort he hasn't felt since he was a child. He's suffocating in her aroma and he finds he wants to keep it that way. Let himself drown in what was June Watson, the doctor that gave him all the praise in the world. He fed off of it, like it was a drug, she was a drug. Just as addictive and charming.

Her fingers strew across him, one hand in his curly locks while the other rubs his shoulder, in an attempt to be comforting. And it's working, he wouldn't tell her that, but it was. He decides to finally close his eyes, remembering the whole meaning of this interaction was to have him sleep, and he didn't want to disappoint June.

The last he ever wanted was to disappoint, and thinking on it, it seemed as if he did it a lot. Not in the least was it on purpose, but that crease she gets between her brow, the one that travels down her nose is what he'd receive on a regular basis. In fact, he had spoken to Mike about it, and he just laughed it off. Saying she was just frustrated with something if she were ever to pull that expression from the ground again.

So he guessed, in a way he only frustrated her, and that wasn't any better. He didn't want to frustrate her, but he couldn't help it…and if it really bothered her, she'd tell him, right? She wouldn't let him bumble in the dark like an idiot, playing a game of chess on what makes her angry and what doesn't. She wasn't like that; June was kind, considerate and caring. She'd never do that to someone she cares for, but it still rings in the back of his head, he wants to ask but the question is caught in his throat and his mouth stays clamped.

Her fingers stretch from the base of his head to the side, playing with the small ringlets near his ear and he feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, a brush of cold exulting the heat that crossed his frame. She doesn't keep them there long, her fingers, though he wishes she had, but instead pulls them back and begins her ministrations all over again.

He leans into her, taking a deep breath, examining the black in his lids. He finds himself drifting, slowly leaving reality and entering a world of pitch black serenity. He's snoring before he can catch himself, safely tucked between June and the couch, a calm entering him, one he hadn't felt for so long he thought he had all but lost the capability to have it.

June smiles to herself as his soft snores enter the distinctly silent room, her fingers still playing through his hair. She leans her head back, watching the ceiling with little to no interest. A warmth spreading across her chest at an alarming rate, flying through her bloodstream like a drug. She'd helped him, for once, with something that wasn't a case.

It was an amazing accomplishment and she prided herself in it. She'd gotten the great Sherlock Holmes to take a break, one that he deserved and needed greatly. She shuts her eyes, the silk still playing between her fingers and the heat from his body expiating.

Before long she was out like a lamp, both sleeping in dire need.


End file.
